


violets

by tenderthings



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dream Sex, F/M, Fingering, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Post-Trespasser, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Wet Dream, angsty smut, this was written for fem!lavellan but you can read it as any fem!inq
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 13:56:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12389472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: This shadow of her lover—willing to hurt her because she wants it, because she carves it; because it’s all he gave her in life and it’s all she has to remember him by.(in which the inquisitor is haunted by sweeter demons)





	violets

 

* * *

 

It begins with her alone, walking along a beach with white sand and dry grass as high as her knee. Seafoam flies in the breeze like snow, scattering across the shoreline and catching in her hair. In the distance, the sea is angry, brewing with an invisible storm. She is deaf to it, holding up the skirt of her dress as she ventures on.

She is barefoot, but the sand holds no heat, nor is it cold. It is simply there. The sun is out, the day is clear, but everything around her is a dull grey. The only spot of true color is her: a violet gown and dark, long hair.

She knows this is a dream. She still has her arm and she feels no pain, but she doesn’t mind—some things should and could never be.

He is there, of course. For a moment he is not, but when she looks, he appears, walking beside her as if he always was.

They never talk in dreams like this. She doesn’t want to. Instead, she threads his hand in hers and leads him further along the shore, deeper into the grass.

Where the bush thickens, she stops and turns back to him. She tightens her grip for a moment, looking deep into his eyes and wavering as she always does in this particular part of the dream. He stares back, sad—apologetic.

She bites her lip, gaze falling to the horizon and finds the black city, looming. She thinks of waking, feels the need to pull away and forget, but then, he tucks a finger beneath her chin and turns her head away, back to him. She blinks, teary, but closes her eyes nonetheless as he bends down to kiss her.

It is not the same—nothing about the Fade will ever be as good as the real thing, but she is accustomed to loving him within this place, a memory from when she was young and free and unknown to him.

He doesn’t stop kissing her; he opens her mouth and bites her bottom lip, cruel though he tries to be kind. His hands move, winding their way into her hair, grasping and guiding her head back so he can kiss her the way he used to—with earnest affection.

She pulls away suddenly, gasping as she clutches his shoulders to brace herself. He leans in closer still, and presses his forehead to hers. He inches in for her mouth but stops. He waits.

He’s always patient, but always hungry. The knowledge of that makes her shiver in her sleep and it brings about a disconnect, a lull in the dream-state—she can feel the pang between her legs, the twist of her sheets, the early morning sun coming over the mountain peaks—as she comes close to waking.

Once again however, he pulls her away by kissing her. This time, it is meant to be cruel. Vicious, even.

This shadow of her lover—willing to hurt her because she wants it, because she carves it; because it’s all he gave her in life and it’s all she has to remember him by.

His mouth is dizzying, the feel of it wrong and rough, but when they break apart, she wants more. He continues to cup her face and runs his thumb along her lips, catching the tip of her tongue on his thumb. When she’s about to give in again, she shakes him off and pulls away.

There is the fleeting assumption that she is truly leaving him, a look of panic then acceptance crossing his face as she begins to back away. Instead, she takes hold of his hand for the second time.

She beckons him along, staring at him all the while as she walks backwards into the thicket. He follows, breathless.

She finds her footing along a mound and falls onto her knees, reclining onto her back to lie amongst the grass. He goes with her, never letting go of her hand until he is braced on his side, hovering over her body. Sweetly, she smiles and pecks his cheek.

They look at one another and she hates him a little for seeming so sad, but touching better her than any lover ever has. She’s been through this too many times to count.

Her lids fall shut when he finally moves, breath fanning over her neck, but in this dream, she has a third eye and watches herself as the scene plays out.

His lips press beneath her chin, nuzzling her throat, as his fingers float down to the front of her dress to undo the laces there. Of course, this is not the man of the real world, but a manifestation of her own longing. He becomes frustrated because she does, so his kisses turn into nips and bites which make her moan and shake. At last, he gives up, sucking a bruise into her skin the same moment he grabs a fistful of lace and tugs and tugs and  _tugs_ —just enough ‘til it rips. He slips his hand underneath and paws at her pretty, little breasts with a new kind of greed. She feels herself grin, before groaning as his thumb flicks over a pert teat.

No matter how many times she’s had this dream, she never manages to get him to undress. It’s unfair; she misses his body, but in the moment, she doesn’t care. All she cares about the way his back feels beneath her hands and his lips running down her neck, to her collarbones, along her shoulders, and then finally, her chest as her bodice hangs open, seams stretched. She guides him along, clutching onto his shirt in a tight grip, throwing her back as she moans.

He has never felt so solid as he does now: fingers on her ribs, hands cupping her breasts with his body slotted between her legs.

Her mind grants her mercy and the scene shifts, her dress now pulled up to her waist as he rocks against her, rough and urgent and ready. The friction is divine, better in her dreaming state because she can’t properly demand more as she would—as she has, when she was awake and got him to fuck her until she screamed.

Memories come into play and the scratch of his breeches biting at her inner thighs is a deliciously familiar thing. She can almost feel his breath as he huffs, amused at her pleased sigh. Then, for whatever reason, he stops.

Whining, she looks down at him, but when she does, she finds he is already looking up at her with strange eyes—eyes that are yellow, glowing, and godlike.

Like before, she can’t bring herself to turn away. And now that he has her, he makes her watch.

Her eyes are glued to his mouth, which is pink and flush, and sinking down her chest until he wraps his lips around her tit. She gives a shout, twisting his shirt in her hands as her legs kick out when his cheeks hallow, the feeling all the more intense as an illusion, a ghost. His fingers pinch and pull at the breast he doesn’t have stuffed in his mouth, tweaking a bit in the way she likes. He sucks on her breasts ‘til they’re soft and swollen, pulling all sorts of noises from her that sound vaguely unreal and entirely unlike her.

She writhes against him, unable to hold his gaze and just  _take it_ , so he grasps her by the hip and holds her still. He grinds his cock into her as punishment and grins as she only struggles more, never once allowing her to look away. He does this again and again, until her toes curl and she almost manages to beg with words. Nothing comes out except muffled, fuzzy noise, but he seems to understand it.

Smiling and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips, he slides a hand down the length of her body, only to wander beneath her skirts and find her wet and aching.

She whimpers, real-world sweat gathering beneath the sheets as he licks his lips.

He makes her thighs shake with the illusion of his finger pressing inside her cunt, teasing and opening her up for a second, a third, before he begins to fuck her, three at once. The sensitization is like honey, slippery sweet and so thick that she feels herself choke, breath caught in her throat. He grinds his palm against her clit and this part is real enough—her sheets are twisted between her legs, fabric up against her bare, empty cunt—and he laughs, drunk on the way she nearly screams.

She has so little willpower left. She can only rock into his hand and beg, but no more words come. She’s forgotten how to speak, can’t even summon the thought to. All that is certain is the three fingers he has stuffed inside her, full ‘til the point of aching but distant and alien and  _good_ , so good, she never wants to wake up.

He never fucks her the she wants to, or will want to once she  _is_  awake.

He never takes off his breeches and puts his cock in her and fucks her. He just keeps pushing his fingers in and out, curling and spreading them apart like he wants her to suffer. This is not her long-lost lover, but her mind, torturing her, though she can hardly complain when it is all so sweet, she’ll forgive just about anything now.

He is giving but to the point of cruelty, sucking at her breasts again despite how much they ache. Her hands give up on his shirt and begin to pull at the steel-rooted grass, legs kicking out at him in false want to flee. Soon, he has enough of that and presses his pelvis against her thigh and the weight of him keeps her legs spread. He uses her to grind against, his cock thick and hard beneath the seams, but forever out of her reach because he insists—he demands all of her. And it’s  _to_ _o much, too much!_  She wants to scream, but she can’t. Oh no, this is the part of the dream where the sound dies because he leaves her tortured tits to kiss her, silly and mad. As false as this all is, soft little sighs are escaping her mouth in her sleep, and she falls back into the memory of his body, his face, his hand, and his lips—wanting all of it so much that when he finally lets her come, she wakes.

He is gone, is her first thought.

She feels cheated, is her second.

How typical, is her third.

She lies still, staring up at the high ceiling.

Alone in her bed, her good arm has ended up thrown over her head, her hand continuing to clutch at the blanket until she summons the energy to let go.

The sheets will need washing, she thinks next; they’re tangled around and between her legs. Her body is shiny and wet, hair sticking to her skin and her shift is soaked through. She feels hot, too.

Her thighs are slick with come and her cunt aches, displeased with her evil, lonely mind.

Soon, anger will kick in but for a few minutes, she closes her eyes and basks.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> the title was inspired by my lavellan's name Iona, which may mean "violet".
> 
> also! if you want me to write something, i take requests at my tumblr: [ @elfapostate ](http://elfapostate.tumblr.com/)


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